


handfuls of last times

by nayt0reprince



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Internal Ike Drama, M/M, Oneshot, POR Spoilers, Post-PoR, Pre-RD, Pre-Relationship, they should be in school sharon not in WAR, who let an 18 year old save the day no really who I'd like to talk with you at the next PTA meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15087875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nayt0reprince/pseuds/nayt0reprince
Summary: war had its consequences - even on ike.





	handfuls of last times

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to the best track in the path of rad ost "to my love," man. like, that song is a hidden friggen gem. why did it only play that once. I still have it on repeat. the local baristas are begging me to stop humming it ‘cause I’m “scaring the customers” or w/e but people must Know The Truth. also hi welcome to tail-end of pride month have a distressed gay ike-con. enjoy! lemme know what u think!

After you die, Ike noticed one of three things happened:

1.) You are remembered fondly by those closest to you and mourned for awhile, or

2.) You are nameless, another statistic in the war, another horror-stricken face as your dulled eyes gazed helplessly at the cold skies, or

3.) Your death becomes celebrated across five different nations as your twisted conquest comes to its inevitable, terrible end.

Ike stood, with slumped and aching shoulders, over the Maddened King’s warped corpse. Blood trickled down Ragnell’s blade, _plip-plip-plopping_ onto the stony courtyard. This was supposed to be a triumphant moment. The Black Knight, defeated. King Ashnard, slain. All they worked for, coming to fruition. Even the clouds cleared as if to celebrate their achievements. But, be it from exhaustion or the smallest inklings of pity, Ike didn’t quite feel victorious. Something was wrong. He swallowed hard and turned away; those would be thoughts for another day.

Mist walked up beside him. She lightly patted his shoulder and gave him a sympathetic smile. She looked worn out, too. Bringing her into this war was her own decision, but he still found himself fretting in silence over her wellbeing.

“Hey,” she said, voice soft. “After Leanne and Reyson finish helping Ena, we should probably move out and find someplace to stay for the night.”

His gaze shifted over to Ena, who clutched Ashnard’s dying mount close to her while smiling fondly. He tore his stare away; to think they were separated for so long, only to have a bittersweet reunion at the very end.

“It makes you want to cherish the people you care for more, right?” Mist bit her bottom lip and strode beside him, scuffing her heels against the ground. “Or at least tell them you care as much as you can, since you never know when the last time will be.” 

The unspoken “like with father” hung heavy between them, slowing their pace to a snail’s crawl. Ike fidgeted with his headband and responded with a simple nod. Beneath helping Elincia reclaim Crimea, he embarked on this journey - engaged with this war - to not just fulfill his father’s legacy, but to enact revenge. Mist probably had similar intentions. With everything over, Greil’s death left a deep, empty gape somewhere in their hearts, no longer filled with ambitions of vengeance. 

“Ike?”

“Mm.”

She latched onto his side, arms locked around him like a vice. She pressed her face against his shoulder, muffling her words: “I love you.”

He stared at the top of her head and patted her with the arm that still had some freedom. He pretended to not hear her sniffs. Managing a small smile, he replied,

“Me, too.”

*

_Since you never know when the last time will be._

Months passed since Ashnard’s tyranny ended, since the Greil Army returned to being the simplistic Greil Mercenaries. Ike’s motley band bade farewell to many allies already, all resuming their own paths before the war started. Familiar faces no longer popped up in Ike’s daily routine; Marcia no longer greeted him first thing in the morning with a beaming smile, Ilyana’s constant stomach-grumbling no longer ended long, awkward stretches of silence in conversations, Aimee’s less-than-desirable flirtations ceased to be, and even Ranulf’s cheerful jabs and jokes stopped joining the late-night campfires. Some decided to stick around, like Mia. But definitely not all.

_The last time._

His training sword poked through the dummy, spilling its poor hay-guts onto the grass below. Still not enough. Still not strong enough. He turned to the next training dummy and fell into his stance. Mist’s words permeated his thoughts like a rotten odor that lingered too long and refused to go away; he tried to ignore them, but their presence only grew stronger. He shook his head - he had enough horrific hauntings to deal with. Yet, as he tried to rationalize the deep, bubbling fears boiling in his stomach, it only made the thoughts more prominent, more demanding. 

He wiped sweat from his brow. 

_The_ last _time._

“Ike.”

The sudden utterance of his name jarred him out of his spiraling thoughts and jerked him back into the present. His shaky grip steadied around his sword’s hilt. His breathing stuttered, then evened out moments later. He closed his eyes, licked his lips, and turned. Soren leaned against a tree, papers and tomes clutched to his chest. His stare, unruffled; his expression, neutral. A breeze mussed his hair as he approached.

“You missed dinner,” he continued, gaze shifting to the wounded training dummy. 

“Oh,” Ike replied. His stomach growled. Soren’s lips twitched with amusement.

“You also missed your own meeting.” _Again,_ the tone implied. He handed Ike a sheet of paper. “Here are the new requests we received today. Both Titania and I combed through them to see what would be a feasible schedule for completion. I already culled out the stupid ones for your convenience.”

“Oh,” Ike said again. He squinted at the paper riddled with Titania’s chicken-scratch and Soren’s delicate scrawl. So few members to go around. What used to take a weekend now took two weeks.

Soren frowned. He snatched the paper from Ike’s hands and stuffed it into one of the tomes before setting the stack down. 

“Something’s wrong.” Although it took him some time to reveal his intentions, Soren never did beat around the bush. He folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head to one side. “Everyone has noticed - even Boyd.”

“It’s nothing.” It really _was_ nothing, and that’s what bothered him more than anything. How something so trivial could worm itself into his reoccurring thoughts was beyond him. 

Soren sighed. “It’s clearly not.”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Ike amended. 

“Mm. Right.” His eyes narrowed. “Which is why you, of all people, are forgetting to eat.”

Leaves rustled to fill the gaping silence between them. Crickets began to sing lullabies to the setting sun as lightning bugs peppered the nearby darkening forest. Ike rubbed the back of his neck before facing Soren directly.

“I don’t know how to say it,” he admitted.

“Try speaking Beorc. I’m sure that would be a good place to start.” 

Ike snorted and shook his head. “You know what I mean.”

“I do. I’m attempting to be more like your sister and ‘lighten the mood.’ See, if I can try new things, you can, too. So.” Soren sat on the ground, tucking his legs beneath him and smoothing the wrinkles free from his robes. “Talk. Your ‘usual’ way of handling things clearly isn’t working.” He gestured to the row of slaughtered training dummies. Lowering his voice, he continued, “This is the least I can do for you after everything you’ve done for me.”

Ike hesitated, then sat down beside him, putting the training sword aside. The pleasant ache from practiced needled at his back, so he laid down instead to grant it reprieve. Above, sunset splashed the clouds various pinks and oranges, and a couple of stars twinkled between them. Summer was always Father’s season - and Ike understood why, if only during twilight.

“It’s dumb. Promise you won’t laugh?”

Soren raised an eyebrow. “You’ve only ever gotten me to laugh three times. This conversation will not bring about a fourth, unless you try your hand at puns again.”

“That one about cats was good, you have to admit.” 

“I admit nothing.”

“I know you laughed. You tried to hide it, but I saw.” That was a personal achievement Ike would never forget. The impassive, unruffled Soren had tried to cover his snicker with a well-timed cough, but the humored sparkle in his eyes gave him away. 

“You were the only one out of the whole room there who did, then. Delusions are powerful creatures, you know.” But Soren turned and gave a small smile at Ike - a silent admission of the truth. “So. Dumb things. You were saying?”

Dumb things. First, Mother died from illness when Ike was too young to understand what was going on. Then Father, when Ike was too young to stop it. Further still, fellow comrades perished when Ike was too young to become Her Majesty Elincia’s general. An unknown sensation coiled in his stomach. His brow furrowed as he tried to dismiss it, but it clawed itself into his chest and throat, squeezing both until he let out a wheeze.

“Ike?”

“Do you ever,” he managed, “think about how everything just… ends?”

“Such is the natural cycle of things, yes. I don’t pay it much mind, though. Why dwell on the inevitable when I have Oscar’s poor budgeting habits to mend?” 

“But sometimes it ends too soon.”

Soren started to say something - his mouth opened, and then closed. He eyed Ike, expression carefully blank, before plucking grass, strand by strand by strand. “True,” he finally said, peering at the dried grass in his palms. “Life can be cruel like that. Unfortunately, we don’t really have the means to control fate - only the gods can. And even then, sometimes they can’t.”

“I just…” Ike draped an arm over his eyes. “I don’t want to lose more people than I already have. And I don’t know how to do that.”

He didn’t know how to prevent a “last time.” He knew he couldn’t control everything - no kings or queens could, either - but the thoughts of a “last time” for any of his mercenaries (Mist, or Titania, or Boyd, or Rolf, or Rhys, or Oscar, or) suffocated him. He needed to get stronger. He needed to make sure that never happened. He dreamed of swords wedged in Titania’s shoulders, dreamed of Rolf with nothing but a broken bow surrounded by armored generals, dreamed of Mist falling off her beloved horse after being gutted by a javelin.

But the worst one always crept in whenever he had a string of dreamless nights, whenever he thought, for a moment, he got over himself. Ike would stand somewhere foreign but oddly familiar, flames around him licking at nearby corpses. His legs shook, his grip lessened, and his body shuddered with each breath. Across from him would be some faceless man, some powerful creature - anything, really - and they would always take aim at him, trying to take advantage of his exhaustion.

And then “it” would happen - despite knowing better, Soren (Soren, who never wore thick enough armor, Soren, who scoffed at the idea of using any blades, Soren, who was _supposed_ to be in the back with Rhys, where it was _safe_ ) would push Ike out of the way. He’d fall, hard. He’d choke out those accursed words Ike never wanted to hear. In the other dreams, none of the others spoke - it happened, then the dream ended. But Soren whispered, Soren choked, Soren gurgled around his own blood as Ike tried to hush him - 

_Please, live. Even if all the cities burn, and the seas swallow Tellius, you mustn’t die - not you…_

No amount of dream-provided vulnaries could stitch a dead tactician back together.

“Ike.” Soren pulled Ike’s arm off his face and glared at him. “Were you listening?”

“Huh? Uh.” Ike stared dazedly up at (living, breathing, perplexed) Soren. “Sorry.”

Soren let him go with a sigh. “I said, you should have more faith in your comrades. None of us really have a deathwish, and we’re more than capable of handling ourselves. Besides, as much as I hate to admit it, we all look out for each other. If someone’s in trouble? Then someone else will go get them. But that ‘someone’ doesn’t always have to be _you._ ” He reached over and picked up the training sword, frowning at all the nicks. “Practicing for the worst-case scenarios is fine and all, but only until it starts making _you_ more vulnerable on the field. You really need to take better care of yourself before you can get gray hairs over nonsense like Boyd’s poor luck. Let _me_ handle that. Being, you know, your _strategist_ and everything.”

Ike sat up, watching Soren toy with the loose bandages around the hilt.

“Judging on recent past performances, the one most likely to be ‘lost’ at this time is you,” Soren continued, although his voice strained, “and we can’t have that, either.” He paused. “ _I_ can’t have that.”

Evening ate away the blue skies, little by little. Ike almost didn’t notice as he stared at Soren, who’s bangs hung over his eyes. An unfamiliar warmth began bubbling in his chest. For some reason, although blunt and practical, Soren seemed to know what to say. He was right; stressing over hypothetical situations just made him more likely to be the one killed instead of his friends. He didn’t want to put them through that. Fixating on the future got him nowhere - he needed to stay in the present. Stay where there was still plenty of time stretched between them, still seconds to make count towards something worth all the fighting. He patted Soren on the shoulder.

“It won’t happen,” he said, trying to be reassuring. “Promise.”

“You’re right. It won’t.” Soren rose to his feet and offered Ike his hand. “And it won’t happen to the rest of us without a fight. Now, let’s get back before you waste away from not feeding yourself. I’m sure Oscar will have saved some leftovers for you.”

“You asked him to, huh.”

Soren simply shrugged and pulled him up. Ike let his hand linger a little too long - gods, Soren’s hands were freezing, no matter the season - before letting it drop to his side. Maybe he needed to focus on different futures. Happier ones. They were there, he just had to find them.

“Do you have any plans?” he asked. “For the future?”

“You mean aside from rescuing cats from trees and scolding bandits for the fiftieth time?” Even from just looking at his back, Ike could tell Soren was smiling. “All my plans rely on yours. Wherever you’ll go, I will follow, to the ends of Tellius and back. Even if that means simply touring all the local meat stands for decades.”

“You sound like you’d have some _beef_ with that plan.”

Soren sighed, the smile widening just a little.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Ike.”

“Yeah,” Ike replied, giving a small smile back. “Me, too. Thanks.”

“No need for gratitude. Just promise me to stop forgetting about dinner - I don’t want to hear Mist whining about your absence any longer.”

“Right, right. My bad.”

That night, Ike dreamed of the smell of spiced meats, of marketplace chatter, of red eyes judging him ( _really, now, did you just scarf down three skewers worth in one minute?_ ), of a hard-to-get smile. A land far away, a land to be discovered in their future.

There were no sad “last times” to be found in his dreams anymore.

And Ike was glad.


End file.
